Alison DeLuca's Blog, page 13

Ode to Friendship

My daughter's best friend came over a few times this weekend. Kid has quite a few besties, but this one is The One. The BFFE. (or BFFL, or whatever it is.)
Art by Sinful Eyes
My kid and her best friend met each other when they were three years old. Since then they've gone to different schools, made other friends, and headed on different activity paths (dance versus acting) but they remain seriously tight.

They just get each other. They've had scraps and butted heads, but in the end when my daughter has had a bad day, there's only one person she wants to call and talk to about it.

You can't buy that. My kid, whether she knows it or not, has won the lottery. She scored the huge prize. She is set for life.

I've got quite a few wonderful friends myself. I've got my cousin, who was my first bestie, as well as the dance school friend, my sister - first my frenemy, now nothin but love for her - my high school friend, who designs my book covers, as well as other wonderful pals, both male and female, who have stayed in touch over the years.

I learned very early on that there is nothing more important than that. Even when I was caught up in affairs of the heart and OH MY GOD I THINK HE IS GOING TO ASK ME OUT - all of it meant very little, really, without a long phone call to chat about it all. Later on the chats were held over drinks, and sometimes we held each other's hair. 

My kid and her friend, I fervently hope, will go through the same thing, maybe without too much of the hair holding part. They'll text each other and drive over to each other's house. They'll have marathon phone convos and give advice. They'll go shopping and head out for Girl's Weekends. 
Image courtesy of Boston.com
Their friendship will deepen and mature, to the point where they'll just have to look at each other and know what the other one is thinking.

And at some point, someone will ask, "So, how do you two know each other, anyway?" And one of them can answer that they've been friends since they were three years old. 

And someone will say, "Hey! That's pretty cool!" 


And someone will be right.

Calling all 10 year-olds who love to read...

For those of you with kids (especially boys) who love series:

Nate Rocks is at it again!


The highly anticipated third installment of the Nate Rocks series is here! 

According to Nathan Rockledge, fifth grade has plenty of perks. Oh sure, there is more work and that know-it-all, Lisa Crane, is still around but, there is a lot to look forward to as well: a laser tag birthday party, baseball at recess, and even a cool Halloween dance. Of course, all of that means nothing without the biggest perk of all . . . the class trip to New York City in the spring. If Nathanís class can raise enough money to go, that is.

Give Nathan paper and a pencil and watch as his imagination turns him into Nate Rocks, hero and fifth grade super star. With adventures abound, Nate saves the day time and again. But will Nate be able to save the fifth grade trip?

Join Nathan, his hilarious family, and his friends, as he rocks the school in another fun Nate Rocks adventure.


Pick up your copy at Amazon and B&N!


Chat with Karen Pokras Toz today at 10:30 am  EST and then follow the Nate Rocks the School Tour for appearances by the author and characters, reviews, and swag pack giveaways!


 
 
Grand Prize Giveaway: Check out these prizes!



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A GWR Publicity Event. Sponsored by Karen Pokras Toz.

A Love Song for Valencia

I spent one summer in Sapin, taking classes at the University of Valencia with a group of students from all over the world. We arrived at the end of June, not knowing what to expect.

At the time, I was a shy Spanish major with a love of reading and a lot of social awkwardness. I moved my one suitcase of stuff into a tiny room on the sixth floor of the dorms, along with the other students. 

We found a city baking in the hot sun, filled with the odors of red wine, the nearby ocean, and a river bed, dried up after years of drought. There were the remains of Roman aqueducts nearby, as well as tiny cafes and fresh fruit bars in every street.

The food in the dorms was incredibly bad. We had wine on every table, but it was so vinegared that even a group of poor college students couldn't drink it. They rotated something that tasted like Alpo lasagna with stale cheese sandwiches.

It was a different story in the cafes. When we could scrape up enough money, we went and ordered tiny mussels served in a white wine and garlic sauce, so delicious that we drank the rest with fresh bread. The fresh fruit bars made drinks from squeezed grapes and tangerines, as well as Agua de Valencia, a combo of champagne and fresh orange juice that I can still taste, thirty years later.

And let us not forget the drink called horchata, a sort of soy milkshake. I had mine "granizada," blended with ice, with a "farton" (a long, sweet roll of bread) on the side. Yes, that was really the name.

July began, and with it came nightly fireworks. Valencian authorities didn't worry about safety regs, so the works exploded close overhead. Lying in the park and watching them felt like going into a live version of Star Wars.

Part of the month-long celebration was "La Batalla de las Flores", an actual battle where girls ride in a circle and the onlookers throw flowers at them. If you're wondering if flowers can hurt, the answer is yes, when you have hundreds of people winging chrysanthemums at your face. 
Those tennis rackets made good face protectors. Too bad I didn't pack one in my suitcase....
We took classes in the mornings. One was taught by a famous professor, on South American literature. I wish I had kept the notes from her lectures; she gave me insights into 100 Years of Solitude that I never considered before. At the end of the term, she had the class over for more Agua de Valencia.

The biggest lesson for me, however, was how to be outgoing. If I had stayed in my shy, awkward shell, I would have had a very long, boring summer. I had to meet people on my own terms, which meant going and talking to them out of the blue. 

I left a boyfriend behind, and I thought I would miss him, my family and my home. On the contrary, the summer flew by all too quickly. 

So I returned with a new fluency in Spanish, a better understanding of South American literature - and a new ability. I knew that if I was put in any situation on my own, I could meet people and survive it. It was a gift - a gift from Valencia.

Volunteering

Image courtesy of rescue.orgAs I wrote yesterday, I'm in limbo at the moment after finishing the Crown Phoenix series. For the past few months, I've spent most of my days inside at my computer to write the book and edit it.

After a while, the solitude of that life becomes normal. After all, people are moving around in my head and talking; their relationships and adventures became my version of human interactions, instead of shopping with friends or going to lunch.

Once the books was delivered to my editor, for a few months at least that little world is closed off to me. So today I sashayed to my kid's school, to put in a few hours of volunteer work. I thought it would be a good way to re-enter the Real World. Where you have to Talk and Stuff.

And so it proved. The other women working to prepare for a huge fundraising event were chatty and hardworking. They accepted that I had reappeared from my office after months of sequestering myself without questions or comments, and I can't tell you how happy that made me.
This woman is a god to me.
We had to do crafty, creative stuff. Yeah, I'm really BAD at that. I can't tell you how much I'm NOT the scrapbooking mom, the decorating wife, the flower arranging lady. If you want a room to look thrown together, as if someone unloaded a moving van right in the center of the floor, I'm your gal. When it comes to decorating, I just don't have that gene.

One mom, who is a genius with that kind of stuff, came to my rescue. She was able to move one thing in the lumpy projects I put together and make them look like breathtaking pieces of art.

At the end of the day, it all comes down to different forms of creativity or talent. Some can organize like there is no tomorrow (I cannot.) Some can paint or make music. Some can put kids instantly at ease, start long conversations with strangers, make friends easily, or bake incredible cakes.

My own little talent is creating imaginary worlds, and it is neither worse nor better than any other form or creativity. It is what it is - I just know that it's there in my brain, and that's that.

Would I trade it in for the ability to make my house look like a magazine shoot or effortlessly organize my life?

Well, no. But I will stand next to that mom who can whip those projects into shape.

Lost in Limbo

Hello, everyone! 

I'm not retired or kidnapped; I've simply been steaming away on an edit of The South Sea Bubble so I can send it off to my editor, the fabulous Carlie Cullen. (We call her Eagle-Eye Carlie.)

The edit has been completed at last, and now I'm ready to start a new book. 

But here's the deal: The South Sea Bubble is the final book in the Crown Phoenix series. I've been writing these books for ages, and to finish with them now is like being lost in the aethersphere.

I know that there is more to come. I have flashes of new books to write and hosts of ideas. The characters in them bump around in my mind, and eventually they'll become real people, as the ones in Lamplighter's, Devil's Kitchen, and the rest did in the end.

Still, it's just like that day at the end of the school year, when I used to teach. My classes and students were always so nice, and I hated to see them go at the end - especially when they were graduating high school.

I knew that a different class would come in and I would enjoy teaching them just as much (or even more!) but that moment of saying goodbye was always - strange. It left me lost for a moment.

Now my mind is wheeling like a compass in an airship caught in a windstorm. Eventually I'll find the correct path, and I'll be able to steer again.

For now, though, I have search for the map...

The Quillective Project

The Quillective Project is an ongoing writing project to help no-kill animal shelters. Their first publication is a collection of poetry called Four Paws, available today on Amazon.
Today we are part of a book blast to show the cover, showcase a few of the poems and give you some links to the project.
Here is the group's press release:

The Quillective Project's mission is to turn the power of the written word into an instrument of compassion, hope, and generosity by putting that power directly in the hands of organizations that share our principles.The 2013 Quillective Project is Four Paws, a poetry anthology featuring bestselling authors Scott Morgan, Ben Ditmars, Amber Jerome~Norrgard and Robert Zimmermann, with a "fourward" by Russell Blake.100% of all proceeds from the sale of Four Paws will benefit The Dallas Humane Society's no-kill shelter, Dog & Kitty City. Your purchase of this book makes a difference.You can find out more about Quillective on Facebook and Twitter.

Here is one poem from the collection:
And another:




Cover Release and Book Blast!

Tower of Bones

Thus begins the Quest of a lifetime...
Connie Jasperson's books are filled with fantasy, magic, and more than that - overriding humanity. Tower of Bones and The Forbidden Road are addictive reads for fantasy fans like myself. I'm lucky enough to be able to present some selections from her books today:
From The Tower of Bones:
…And from The Forbidden Road:
“Why does the land change so radically here?” Zan finally asked Edwin. “This is the worst road I’ve ever seen!”“Tauron’s poison is nearly at the door,” replied Edwin, wondering what was bothering Zan. “It’s a mere fifty leagues away from the gap now. I thought you understood. We’ll be in Tauron’s Mal Evol in three days.”“I knew it on one level, but I guess I didn’t understand what it meant,” replied Zan, feeling temporarily dismayed by the grim reality of the landscape. “I guess I was thinking of the adventure, not the reality. I was thinking it’d be like Aelfrid Firesword, all fun and adventure, with no worry.” “Actually, Aelfrid Firesword’s life must’ve been terribly difficult,” said Edwin, walking next to Zan. “Think about it. He was forced to kill his closest friend who’d become a rogue mage and gone over to Tauron. Can you imagine how you’d feel if, say, I went over to Tauron? How would you protect the people of Neveyah from me? What would you do?”“I never thought about that aspect of the story,” Zan admitted. “Making those sorts of decisions, having to kill someone you love in order to protect others you love, I can’t imagine what that was like for Aelfrid.” He sighed. “But I’d do it, if I was forced to. I think it’d kill me, though.”“I know.” Edwin clasped Zan’s shoulder. “Daryk was the most famous of the Dark-Mages, but most people don’t know he fought desperately againstTauron’s minions at Aelfrid’s side when the two of them first came into their powers. He worshipped Aeos, and loved Neveyah with all his heart. It never occurred to either Aelfrid or Daryk he would ever fall to Tauron, but there was no Temple, and no vows to protect him from Tauron’s blandishments. There was no college to teach young mages how to use their magic, so they had to learn how to control the build-up of chi and avoid the madness by gaining apprenticeships to older mages. Daryk was lured away from their kind master by a mindbender who was under Tauron’s spell. It was because of Aelfrid’s grief over the loss of the man who’d been closer than a brother, and his struggle to save the other mages still loyal to Aeos that Aeoven and the Temple exist today. Without Aelfrid we wouldn’t have the augmentations allowing us access to greater chi reserves, nor would we bind ourselves to the Goddess with the vows. It must’ve been a terribly hard time to live through.”“I see what you mean,” admitted Zan. “As a kid I read all the stories, and just thought it was all good against evil, romance and happy endings. But maybe it’s just the way the bards tell it.”Edwin laughed. “It wouldn’t be a good story if it was all dirt, bug bites and poor sanitary conditions now, would it?”

The author, in a festive moment

Blue Morning

Alexander from
the Judith Viorst bookMy kid woke up in an instant tantrum, and I had a touch of stomach flu. 

Due to the tantrum, Kid missed the bus and I had to drive her to school, yells and all. 

On the way there, I saw that the gas needle was pushing E. 

At that point, I knew I was having a Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day.

I got stuck behind Mr. Slow in traffic, and we reached the school too late to get in the side drop-off entrance. I had to get out of my car and sign her in as late.

The temperature had dropped at least 30 degrees overnight, and I was wearing a light spring jacket. Also, since I had expected to stay INSIDE the car for the drop-off, I was sporting bedroom slippers.

Thanking the good Lord that I had at least changed out of pyjamas, I walked Kid in, signed her in, and got back in the car with a sigh of relief. 

I coasted into the gas station and rolled down the window. The man came to the car, and he was skatting. Skatting! in 20 degree weather!

"How are you, lady?" he asked with a broad smile.

It was infectious. I smiled back. "Just fine," I lied. "And you?"

"Oh, you know, I'm in that moooood!" This was followed by a fine belly laugh and more skats. 
Image courtesy of DocumentaryStorm.com
At that point I began to feel ashamed of myself. Here I was being cranky about stuff that was, in the grand scheme of things, nothing but minutia. And if Gasoline Pump Man could be happy and skatt-ish while he worked outside in freezing weather, I could be happy inside my heated SUV. 

Maybe, I thought, I could salvage the morning. I would play some sweet tunes, have a long cup of tea and a hot shower, and wash the bad start away. 

Filled with these virtuous plans, I paid Happy Skat Man and drove off.....

.... only to realize my kid had left her coat and lunch in the car.

That Antique Moment

This action is known as "dialing."At a dinner party over the weekend, one guy started complaining that his nephews had no idea how to use a dial phone. His dad still had an old rotary in the kitchen, and the boys couldn't figure out how to use it.

"It's a PHONE?" was their shocked reaction. "But how do you dial?"

In fact, I'm surprised they know the concept of dialing. Soon we'll just speak to Siri, and she'll dial for us. 

My own antique moment came when my husband and I were first married. We moved to Evanston so he could go to Kellogg business school; part of the MBA experience was going to Friday night mixers to chat with other students.

At one mixer, I started talking to a very young, very attractive girl. She was wearing a pendant on a long chain that looked exactly like this:

image courtesy of yesteryearremembered.com

"Oh, that's so cool!" I gushed. "It looks just like those things we used to pop into the center of 45's!"

She frowned. "What are you talking about?" she asked.

And that's when it hit me: I'm old. It was that awkward, antique moment.

That moment is arriving faster as the speed of technology picks up. After all, those old rotaries had a good run - they were around for fifty-odd years, I'd guess. (Before that, people picked up a sort of speaking tube and demanded numbers like Pennsylvania 65000.)

Now tech gets replaced every year, at least. Remember burning CD's? That wasn't all that long ago. Soon, though, that action will seem as quaint as floppy disks or my little 45 rpm doodad, as we place huge mp3 lists on external memory sticks and trade those.

I sort of miss those rotary phones. It was fun to dial them with a pencil, and I liked that clicky noise the dial made. Ditto real records - when you played a great album on a sweet stereo after midnight, in your sister's room, listening on headphones. That ROCKED.

It's cool that my kid doesn't need a ride to the mall every single time she wants to buy a One Direction song*; plus, she and her friends are doing stuff on their iPods that I would have considered witchcraft when I was her age. Still, I really want a phone number that has a word in it. Make mine Antique 1960.



*I know. She's 8 - what can you do?

Scars and Coming Home

Remember that scene from Jaws, when Richard Dreyfuss and Robert Shaw start showing off their shark bites? And Roy Scheider looks at his tiny nick and decides not to talk about it after all?

I have two scars on my face that I got when I was five. It was the sixties, and I was riding home with Frankie, my boyfriend at the time. We had a torrid relationship going - I used to wear dress up clothes to show off for him, and in return he gave me a small glass bear. 

As it was the sixties, the ride home was in the back of a huge Rambler Marlin, the kind with a long, sloping window where you could look out of the back. Frankie, his sister, and I all sat there and made faces at the traffic behind us. 

Seat belts? Not at all. We weren't even in seats. We lay on our stomachs and propped our chins in our fists. It was springtime in Arizona and the day was already sweltering, and Frankie's mom, who was driving at the time, had promised us a few runs through the hose.

Life was good, until the mom blew a stop sign. Another car hit us, and there was a short, loud Bang! I looked down and thought, That's strange; my white shirt has red polka dots now. 

I don't remember much after that, beyond a woman's voice, screaming. Kids' head injuries bleed a lot, and I was no exception. 
Image courtesy of adclassix.com
My mother didn't let me ride in Frankie's car any more, and eventually we moved to the east coast.

That incident is immortalized by two scars: one right in the center of my forehead, so I look as though I'm always frowning, and another that bisects my lip. Neither injury was life-threatening, and they were almost worth running through the hose in sweltering Tucson. 

My daughter's own perfect face will one day acquire its own scars. Maybe she'll trip in dance class or bite the pitch in soccer. But she won't get them in the back of a Marlin.